So My Soul Can Sing

One of my all-time favorites, freshly relevant: 

Feeling Fucked Up, Etheridge Knight

Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and split

and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs—

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing

Ironically, though I hadn't thought of this poem in years, it was only a week or so before our split that I read it to Debbie and Zena.

Poem Of The Day

Apropos of nothing, really, but Ta-Nehisi Coates over at The Atlantic reminded me of Etheridge Knight, author of one of my favorite poems, "Feeling Fucked Up."

Here it is:

Lord she's gone done left me
done packed up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs--

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcom fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing

And here's the one Coates posted. Check it out.

For more on Knight.

Poem Of The Day

From Michael Kerr over at Melancholy Sideshow:

Wealth

Thank you for

the box

of diamonds

I can tell you worked

hard

on the label

Walt Whitman's "America"

This is very cool. Somehow Sully found a recording of one of America's brightest lights and one of my favorite poets, Walt Whitman, reading from his poem, "America." If you've never read Leaves of Grass do yourself a favor and remedy the situation. In the meantime listen to Whitman speak to us from across a century of time.

America

Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear'd, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love.

Enjoy the recording:

And for more background on Whitman, go here, here or here. 

Stop!

Standing Tall

I just love these old photos.

Hat tip: Jennifer Hart

Poem Of The Day

Part I of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself:"

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy. 

Poem Of The Day

"The walls between art and engineering exist only in our minds." 

This is very, very cool. Pete, I think you'll dig it the most.

Click here for more.

h/t: Daily Dish

Poem Of The Day

EVERYTHING IS WAITING FOR YOU
Your great mistake is to act the drama 

as if you were alone. 

As if life were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden transgressions. 

To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy 

of your surroundings. 

Surely, even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, 

crowding out your solo voice. 

You must note the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things to come, 

the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness 

and ease into the conversation. 

The kettle is singing even as it pours you a drink, 

the cooking pots have left their arrogant aloofness 

and seen the good in you at last. 

All the birds and creatures of the world are 

unutterably themselves. 

Everything, 

everything, 

everything is waiting for you.

—David Whyte

Poem Of The Day

From one of my favorites, Pablo Neruda.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Strange Fruit

In honor of National Black History Month, a post about one the most haunting, heart-breaking songs of the 20th century.

Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

This song began its life as a poem written by Abel Meeropol, a Jewish schoolteacher who lived in the Bronx. He set the poem to music and published it under the pseudonym of Lewis Allan. It was later famously recorded by Billie Holiday and became of sort of signature song for her as well as an iconic piece of the Civil Rights movement. 

Meeropol was inspired to write the poem after seeing this horrific photograph showing the lynching of two black men in the American South:

Quintessentially American. "Strange Fruit" is, in my opinion, the most important American poem/song of the 20th century. It's poignant, haunting words send chills down the spine. Sadness and pain ooze through Lady Day's vocals. It captures a main element of the brutal reality of what was arguably the defining issue of American life in the last hundred years—what W.E.B. Dubois called the color line—race. 

But Meeropol's outrage and the words that came from that anger inspired change and managed to turn the gruesome pasttime of photographing lynchings, creating postcards of them and passing them around like vacation souvenirs back on itself. A transmutation of evil to good.  

Also, the fact that it was written by a Jewish man and sung by an iconic African-American singer (my personal favorite) and moved the hearts of people across the continent only adds to its power and ironically, I think, conveys a latent message of hope not found (or intended) in its lyrics.

For a more detailed history of the song click here, here, and here. 

Look and Listen. Take a listen to the song:   powered by ODEO 

Or better yet, watch this video:

Sting also recorded a surprisingly moving version of the song for the 1986 compilation album called Rock for Amnesty, a fundraiser for the human rights organization Amnesty International. I'll link if I can find that version, but in the meantime, this video's not bad (though, frankly not as haunting and spare as the album version). 

Glimpses of Evil. For more on the history of lynching postcards, please check out this site: Without Sanctuary. It's a difficult visit, but it is an integral part of American history, and one I think we shouldn't shy away from if we're to continue moving forward. 

Stand Still

Would you chase the wind
to find happiness?
To wind up lost and alone
on a distant shore.
And the wind?
It’s stopped.
Disappeared. Like a ghost.

Stand still
and the wind
will begin again.
It will come to you.
But not to be kept—
jealously guarded by your desire.
Stand still
and be rewarded.

A Trio This Time

Rapids and All
If the world is a land of dreams
With shifting sands and streams
of consciousness
Then let’s shift with them
And ride them—
rapids and all—
Together until...
Now

Struggle
I struggle with my own mortality
Don't want to leave
Don't want to be
Dead
Ceasing to exist
Missed or not missed,
doesn't matter to me.
My ego won't see
That to die is to be
Free from constraint
And the taint of this world
Where struggle is the order of the day.

I struggle with my own mortality
My brain knows that my energy
Cannot die
just transform,
food for worms.
But the me that is me,
that is, my personality,
will not survive
when my body dies…

And it's kicking and screaming.


The Clock, A Leash
The clock, a leash,
a merciless master.
Mankind’s Frankenstein—
despite Einstein—
Chronologic disaster
(Ticking faster and faster).

The Sun Takes A Lover

I am the radiant sun
Whose flaming tendrils
Surround you with their heat,
Enter you with their fire,
Hungrily devour your flesh.

Hungrily, I devour your flesh
While you offer yourself up
In a feverish submission.
Empty of thought.
Full of desire.

Wrapped in my brilliant arms,
You surrender and burn.
Burn with a smoldering passion.
Glowing, bursting
With light and with heat,
You explode and you melt…

And dissolve in our fiery embrace.

The Great God Pan Is Not Dead!

The Great God Pan is not dead!
I've just been asleep...
But now I'm awake.

Like a volcano
I've been dormant for too long,
Now I'm strong;
Found my song
Get my pipes
And I'll play it.

Yeah, I'm up from my slumber
Shed the sleep
that encumbered
My nature
And it's time now
to say it.

Done with crosses
and guilt.
Use what's under my kilt
To wipe piety
Out of the way.

Out with Pisces--
The fish--
Had enough of that dish
Its time
has been long overstayed,
Overplayed.
I must play...

On my pipes
Just a goat
Hittin' note after note
Sowin' oats
Leading girlies astray.

And I'm ripe for the pickin'
Finger lickin'
Like chicken
Always randy, but
Keepin' it real.

Make them reel
Cause I'm rank.
Yeah, my funk
And my stank
Will contribute
To making them squeal.

And as I stroll
Through the woods
Spreading love
with my goods
Bringing life
to the world-weary souls.

I'll bleat out
and I'll call
With my fecund "Y'all!
Wake up
Come dance 'round
My Maypole!"

No, Pan isn't dead
Despite what they said
When the death cult
Took over the world.

I've just been haunting the nooks,
Of the forests and brooks,
Waiting for the right time to unfurl.

The Laddie Fancies Himself A Poet

Okay, now this officially isn't just a politically oriented blog. 

No Resolve
A new year is upon us
Breathing down our necks.
Heavy with the responsibility of a clean slate.
Thick with its potential
Riddled with expectation

We stand athwart the threshold
of then and then to come
For just a second, then it's gone.

We're pushed, shoved, thrust into the future.
Into the land of resolutions to be broken—
an ocean of set ups, a desert of delusion.

Stunned, we face the juggernaut of
tomorrow's desperate drive.
Mindlessly, we stretch
Seeking to become, become, become.
More, better, something else.
Someone else.

So my friends, before we offer ourselves up
on an altar of anticipated angst,
Let's sit back, look around, breathe deep
and enjoy ourselves—
Imperfect, magnificent shards of god.


And then I promise, I vow, I resolve…
no more melodramatic poetry this year.